


The Stranger

by StrangerStars



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Betrayal, Character Study, Damien Spoilers, Gen, Introspection, POV Second Person, Probably Jossed by Now, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-27 22:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20767721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangerStars/pseuds/StrangerStars
Summary: "Together," she says.Celinesays. You and her and him.The thought doesn't seem so bad. Not in the darkness that flows through you as your blood pools upon the floor. As your body lies cooling, dead from a wound not meant for you. The chance to live again, to breathe and walk and see the world outside this wretched house. The chance for you to find him, the puppeteer of so much pain, and bring him to justice.No, it doesn't seem that bad at all.-Life on the other side of the mirror.





	The Stranger

You had a name once. You not sure of much these days, but you're almost sure of this. Everyone has a name, don't they? Why wouldn't you?

You like to think about what the name could have been. Something warm, maybe a little old fashioned. Something that fit with the times, strange though they seem from the other side of things.

You like to think you had important job and an apartment in the city. You would have liked to have a pet, but you were always so very busy. It was the best you could do to curl up next to the window and read a book late into the evening. You miss reading. The words are all backwards here.

You think that life would have made you happy, but you don't know yourself all that well anymore. Another part of you thinks you might have been awfully lonely. You're so lonely now that it seems to echo into the scattered memories of your past. It taints everything it touches.

Whatever loneliness you felt then is nothing like you feel now. Here, in this wretched, warped place. This space between spaces, the space in the worlds. A realm that ends at the mirror's edge.

This place makes you long for hell. For the damnation, for isolation, the stark reminder of a life that's been stolen away. Anywhere would be better than where you're at. Being completely alone would be better than the company you now keep. Than the voices that come whisper up from the cracks, creeping up from the depths. 

-

You're not sure when you lost yourself. The void has a way of whittling away at bits and pieces, of stealing them away so softly you never notice until they're gone. You don't realize until you go looking and realize you can't remember your mother's face or you favorite song. You can't recall where you grew up or the way you would lull yourself to sleep. You don't remember the sacrifices you made, the choices that lead you to this place. 

It's so very strange to wake up one day and realize you are incomplete and you're not sure how you got that way. Something vital is missing and you're not sure how to fix it.

You're not sure if you want to. Wouldn't it be kinder just to fade from existence? To forget yourself? 

After all, everyone else did. 

-

Your mirror looks out over an empty room. There's an old blood stain on the floor that no one ever tried to clean. The house is dark and quiet and collecting dust. The rooms are full of mirrors, so close you can step across the void and into another one. You wander the house for hours, looking into destroyed rooms that feel oh so very familiar, but look so different through the glass.

Something happened there, you're sure. Something horrible. It changed everyone it touched. You can see it in silhouette, a memory faded and full of regret. You try to seize it, but it all crumbles in your hand. That doesn't stop you from clutching it close, from breathing it in. Hoping that one day it'll wake something inside of you. 

-

You find the shilouette memories in the oddest of places. You try to capture them, but no matter what you do, you can never truly keep them. You stuff their shards into your pockets and ignore the way the void yawns open when you pass. It's hungry, the things that live inside it scrambling after every scrap. It feeds on memories, on the living and the dead. It gnaws away at you, trying to take what makes you different. What keeps you walking above the squirming darkness, from one window to another. 

In it's desperation, the void offers you answers. All it wants in exchange is everything that's left of who you use to be. 

You do not give into that temptation. And when you jump across the void, from one mirror into another, you do not look down. You do not peer into the darkness. And you keep your hands over your pockets, least a piece of you slip and fall through the cracks. 

-

You hear the void wherever you go. It doesn't always whisper, doesn't always call. It doesn't always coax you into giving it all you have. Sometimes it speaks of things that could have been. Should have been. It tells you about the world outside your grasp, about things that have happened, that will come to pass. It speaks and you have no choice but to listen. 

It drills into your head, into all the cracks that crisscross you. You can't escape it.

Sometimes you wonder about your old friends. You can almost see their faces in the shadows. Can almost remember the warmth of their smiles, the touch of their hands.

You wonder if they heard the voices too. If the void spoke to them when they were all alone, giving voice to that rotten house. If it twisted them all up inside, until they didn't know what was right and what was wrong. If it made one into a mockery of a man, if it drove another into madness. If it whispered obsession to the dying, betrayal to the dead, desertion to the living. 

You wonder if it drove them to do it, if the void wanted the mirror to crack. 

You'd ask them, any of them, if you only had the chance. You'd ask them a great many things, about who you once were, about the life you once had. You'd ask them, if only their reply was anything but silence and shattered glass. 

-

Wherever a mirror looks, so can you. You pass through bathrooms, hallways, stores, and cars. You're searching, that much you know. For them, the ones that walk through the static, who flicker like a splitting movie reel. The world of reflections is yours to traverse. You see the world in reverse and it is just as beautiful, just as ugly, as you always thought it would be. 

People confess so much to their reflection. They never think about who might be looking out at them from behind the glass. Wearing a similar face, listening closely as they their spill insecurities, their hopes, their sins. 

You do not comfort. You do not encourage. You do not wish to frighten those who are simply living their lives. 

But those who are guilty... Those who wash blood from their hands in sinks, who scrub at clothes stained pink. Those with haunted eyes, those without a single sign of remorse- those are the ones you wish could see you. 

-

Vengeance, you think, watching a man scrub away the drying blood of a woman from the subway. That's what you would be. A spirit that warps a stranger's face, whose whisper sounds like breaking glass. You would make them suffer. Would make them pay for the things they have done. 

You would give the dead, the dying, the injured, a little bit of peace. 

You would not call it justice. But maybe it would feel like it after the fact. Maybe, it would feel like you had gotten a part of yourself back. 

-

You find _them_ on a cold October day. In a park of all places, gazing out over a lake. You stare at _their _face, into _their _eyes. You stare at _them_ through a recycled piece of art. You stare and all those little pieces, the one's you've been collecting in the void, string themselves back together. 

How could you not remember? 

-

"_Together,"_ she says. _Celine says. _You and her and him. 

The thought doesn't seem so bad. Not in the darkness that flows through you as your blood pools upon the floor. As your body lies cooling, dead from a wound not meant for you. The chance to live again, to breathe and walk and see the world outside this wretched house. The chance for you to find _him _and bring him to justice. 

No, it doesn't seem that bad at all. 

"_Together," _you agree, and open up the door. You welcome them inside the only home that has ever truly been yours. 

Their souls- so bright and warm- crowd in next to yours. The utter, alien intimacy of another soul touching yours is overwhelming but for the first time in your life you don't feel alone.

Your body shudders. It feels like it might burst at the seams, that the three of you are too much for it to contain. You reach for them, ready to pull them tight. You believe with all your might that the three of you can make this work, that you'll survive this house, this death. 

Your hand touches him- and something isn't right. He's here, with you, but he's miles away. In some cold, white, quiet place. 

_What_, you think and turn to her. 

She doesn't say a word, and that's what will haunt you later. She stares at you and your body moves without your command. You hear someone speak, but you do not listen. All you can see is her. 

She doesn't push, but suddenly you're unmoored. You're somewhere else, staring at a face that should have been yours, but you don't recognize it anymore. Between the two of you the mirror cracks. 

Behind your eyes, a stranger sits. Your old friend sleeps, unaware of everything. He wouldn't have stood for this, you think, you hope. He wouldn't have let this happen. He would have found another way. 

Because you see now, as she turns and walks away, that there was a price to pay. A sacrifice had to be made. Someone had to shatter, had to be the shield that let this magic work. Someone had to stay behind so the others could leave. Between you and her brother, it wasn't even a choice.

You almost understand. You are a stranger after all. 

That's all you've ever been. 


End file.
